It is only when I wake up in the middle of the night that I remember the word I was trying to find to describe Hannah’s reaction. Visceral. A fear that comes from a place beyond all reason and logic. A shiver runs down my spine. She sees him too.

Chapter Eight

I wake up to find the alarm clock is flashing 03:31. It was a present from Chris last year, when my paranoia over failing to set my alarm clock correctly had reached a fever pitch. It projects the time on to the wall in huge green numbers, with the time the alarm is set for underneath. This way I can lie in bed and be absolutely sure the alarm is set properly. It’s been a godsend.

I slip out of bed and pad to the living room. I have hidden Leah’s laptop in my work backpack. I bought a slip-on skin for it so you can’t tell it’s the fancy rose gold model; Chris will assume it’s a work one. There are a few irate-sounding emails from Emma, asking why I was ignoring her instructions to jump on some new trend, why I hadn’t provided Zach with some new pictures for him to post that evening:

Lots of talk tonight about getting beach body ready. Zach needs to post inspirational bikini pics.

Send the pictures. Build that following, Leah. Be better.

You know you pay me for this advice? Act on it.

So much for “taking it easy.” And who the hell posts “inspirational bikini pics” when everyone is still trying to hide their extra mince pie shame? I scroll through a few of Leah’s friends’ accounts. Every single one of them, it transpires. The ubiquitous selfie in a luxury bathroom, the hint of a six-pack, no sign of mulled-wine bloat. #beachbodyready. #hardworkpaysoff. #anythingispossible. I want to laugh. Instead I flick back through Leah’s feed. There are a lot of pictures of her in a bikini, or in her underwear. I feel ashamed. It’s not my body in those images—hell, it might not even be Leah’s, Photoshop is pretty easy to get the hang of these days—but it looks like me. I feel violated and experience a sudden burst of solidarity for the growing list of young actresses speaking up about the deep-fake porn being created of them. I hope to God Leah isn’t famous enough, or considered pretty enough, for someone to make deep-fake porn of her. Of us.

Get a grip. Keep things separate. Isolated. In neat little boxes. That is the only way. The old woman’s voice in my head, the one that now sounds like a Victorian governess, is right. I need to keep calm. To think of Leah as entirely separate. Don’t cross the streams.

Chris got up early. A trip to visit one of his old university friends, he tells me. He will be out all day, stay overnight and be back tomorrow.

“Let’s have a roast dinner tomorrow, Meggie,” he suggests as he kisses my cheek. “And then I’ll make up for what you missed last night.” He winks before he turns to walk down the steps of our house.